


stories of s.w.o.r.d

by eliotkeats



Category: High and Low: the Story of S.W.O.R.D. (TV)
Genre: Drabble Collection, F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-13
Updated: 2018-03-14
Packaged: 2019-02-14 03:38:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 3,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12999039
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eliotkeats/pseuds/eliotkeats
Summary: kizzy/kaito + taking a bath together





	1. cobra/murayama

That morning, when the wind picks up, blowing trash across the courtyard and whipping straggly tree branches across the cracked windows, he snags a fresh shirt from his locker and tells Furuya and Seki not to follow him.

He’s not sure why he ends up wandering the shop-lined streets of Sannoh.  They’re between downpours, the puddles on the pavement reflecting the tangle of power lines overhead.  The city smells like rain, and Murayama’s sneakers are soaked.  He tugs off his bandanna and stuffs it into the pocket of his worn jeans.  No one pays attention to him.  Everyone knows Oya High kids meaning trouble move in packs.    

It’s late summer, early autumn, and there’s money in his pocket and a convenience store nearby.  

The bell jangles as he steps outside, one cupcake already crammed half into his mouth, an edge of greasy paper fraying on his tongue.  

He almost walks into Cobra.  Stupid, noble, irritatingly handsome Cobra.  

Cobra briefly looks surprised, before he schools his expression into something more neutral.  He glances over Murayama’s shoulder into the store.  “Murayama.  What are you doing here?”

There’s a distant roll of thunder.  

Murayama thinks about fighting Cobra, but the air’s summer storm heavy, and too muggy for a fight.  Besides, he’s carrying cupcakes.  They’d get crushed.  The wind has picked up again, the breeze snapping awning fabrics and making Murayama’s jacket flutter around him.  Cobra’s starting to look a little impatient, which isn’t good, Murayama still wants to talk with him, so he does the only thing that comes to mind and thrusts one of the cupcakes in Cobra’s direction.  

Cobra looks at it, then at him.  

“Cobra~chan,” Murayama drawls through a full mouth.  “My arm’s getting tired.”

Despite looking bemused, Cobra takes the cupcake.  

They end up on the stretch of catwalks and girders that stretches across Sannoh.  In the distance, the setting sun is bleeding onto the idle smokestacks and rusted warehouses of the Nameless Road.  Murayama’s cupcake is a sugary memory, and he fidgets with the crumb-caked wrapper, watching Cobra out of the corner of his eye.  

Cobra folds his arms over a railing and peels the wrapper from his own cupcake, torturously slow.  “You still haven’t told me what you’re doing in Sannoh.”

“I need a reason?”

Cobra doesn’t even look at him.  “Yes.”

“Maybe I wanted to see you,” Murayama says, a sentence that skims uncomfortably close to the truth.  He smirks when Cobra glances briefly at him.  

“Bullshit.”

Murayama tucks his hands into his pockets, curling his fingers against his thighs.  Rocks back on his heels briefly.  “How’s Chiharu?”

Cobra stiffens, carefully places the cupcake down on the railing, and moves in close — so  _fucking_ close — and regards Murayama evenly.  “I don’t care what you do in your own neighborhood, but Sannoh is under the protection of the Hoodlum Squad.  Don’t mess with my friends, Murayama.”

Murayama laughs.  He repeats ‘ _friends’_ , dragging the word out, making sure to pronounce each syllable.  “You make friends quickly, Cobra-chan.  Don’t worry, I’m not going to try to get him back.  Kid’s a nuisance.”

“ _You’re_  one to talk about nuisances,” Cobra retorts, turning back to the railing.

Murayama snorts.  “Hey, you, namecalling; I just bought you food.  You gonna eat your cupcake?”

Cobra frowns, but takes a perfunctory bite of the cupcake.  It leaves a smear of creamy white frosting at the corner of his mouth.  Murayama thinks about licking it off; a long stroke up the side of Cobra’s face.  He wonders how Cobra would react if he did that.  Wonders if the consequences would be worth the memory.  He licks his lips and tastes sweet.

Cobra wipes the frosting away with his knuckles, quickly sucking it off the back of his hand.  Something hot and heavy sinks to the pit of Murayama’s stomach.  

The static in his head is interrupted by a cheerful whoop from the street below.  Cobra glances down and Murayama follows suit.  Cobra’s second, Yamato, is below, squinting up at them with a broad grin on his face.  

Looking down at him, the hard, set line of Cobra’s mouth softens —  _fuck_ — and Murayama doesn’t think he’s ever hated anyone as much as he hates Yamato in that moment.   

“You want dinner or not, Cobra?  Who you talking to?”  Then he obviously recognizes Murayama, because the grin falls from his face and is replaced with anger.  “What’s that guy doing here?  You need help?”

Cobra actually  _smiles_ at Yamato.  “I’m fine, Yamato.  Be down in a minute.  Don’t wait,” he calls down.  

Yamato scowls at Murayama.  “Hurry up.”

When Cobra looks back at Murayama , the fond look fades.  “You should be going,” he says, not unkindly, but Murayama knows his time is up.  

Cobra doesn’t thank him for the cupcake.  He doesn’t say good-bye, either, just stands for a moment before turning away and beginning to walk back to the end of the catwalk.

“See you around, Cobra-chan,” Murayama calls after Cobra, forcing the words out.

Cobra pauses, shoulders as straight as ever, hair gilded by the last few remaining minutes of sunlight.  “Let’s hope not.”  He glances down at the cupcake wrapper crumpled in his palm, and shoves it into his pocket.  Because of fucking course the leader of Sannoh’s Hoodlum Squad doesn’t litter.


	2. kohaku/tsukumo

“You’re clucking over me like an old hen, Tukumo,” Kokaku says, with a tight smile.  

Tsukumo grunts, forehead furrowed in a frown as he presses a sticky bandage over the raw scrape on Kohaku’s upper arm.  He’s perched on the edge of his bar stool, the heel of his boot ground into a knothole in the floor.  The cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth glows dull orange at the butt end, and Kohaku finds himself fixating on it.  There’s a bone-deep ache throbbing just below his eye, and even the soft golden lights of Ito-kan in the evening hurt his eyes.  Naomi is running a damp rag across the counter, getting ready to close up shop.  

Watching the dark crown of Tsukumo’s head, bowed over Kohaku’s injuries, Kohaku’s pulse picks up, affection melting into guilt.  He reaches for his glass with a trembling hand he hopes Tsukumo doesn’t notice, and chases down the lump in his throat with a gulp of whiskey.  

A tea kettle whistles shrilly and Naomi disappears into the back room, emerging a minute later with a tea-stained strainer full of wrinkled tea bags.  She nudges Tsukumo’s shoulder and he takes them from her.  

“How’s your bike?” Naomi asks Kohaku.

Tsukumo answers for him.  “He scraped the hell out of the fuel tank and dinged up the exhaust pipe; the damn thing still got off better than him.”  He scoops one of the tea bags out of the strainer, and slaps it onto Kohaku’s bruised, aching cheekbone.  “Hold it there,” he orders, over Kohaku’s startled oath, and when Kohaku doesn’t immediately obey, he grabs Kohaku’s hand and guides it to his cheekbone, pressing it against the warm, wet teabag.  “I said hold it.”

Reluctantly, Kohaku complies.  He glances up just as Tsukumo looks over, and they meet gazes.  Tsukumo’s eyes are reddened — Kohaku doesn’t know if it’s the late hour or the whiskey’s fault — and he’s still scowling, although his forehead smooths out as he meets Kohaku’s eyes.  

A trickle of lukewarm tea trickles down the side of Kohaku’s nose.

Then Tsukumo’s gaze shifts slightly and he swears under his breath.  He pulls the backing off another bandage and smooths it onto the scraped back of Kohaku’s hand holding the makeshift compress.  “Idiot.  Be more careful,” he says, the words lacking any sting.  

Kohaku swallows hard against the sudden tightness in his throat.  


	3. kizzy/kaito

They’re on a rooftop.  It’s night, and Kaito’s cold, and there’s blood drying on his face where a man’s gaudy ring had split open his chapped lower lip.  

Gravel crunches under his boots as he straightens up, ignoring the man curled at his feet, cupping his bleeding nose and groaning.  There had been a noticeable crunch when Kaito’s elbow slammed into it, and he suspects it’s broken.   **  
**

Kizzy brushes shoulders with him as she steps past; the contact brief as it is grounding.  She kneels beside the guy, flicking back the tail of her coat as she does so, pushes him over onto his back, and goes through his pockets.  He doesn’t put up a fight, just keeps groaning in pain.  There’s blood gushing from his now crooked nose.    Even in the dim ambient light, Kaito can read the distaste in Kizzy’s expression.

She makes a pleased noise and straightens, triumphantly brandishing a crumpled piece of paper in the air.  It flutters in the wind, threatening to blow off the building’s edge into the night.  Kaito looks at it.  There’s words scrawled on it.  The information they’d been sent to retrieve.  

Kizzy is grinning at him, her hair windswept.  She needs a haircut.  Maybe she’s decided to grow it out.  He’ll ask her later.  

His jacket shifts on his shoulders as he pulls his hands out of his pockets and gives her a thumbs up.  “Home?” he asks, hoarse.  

Kizzy hums, cocks her head to one side, and considers the man at their feet for several seconds before she pulls back her foot and kicks him in the temple with her boot.  He slumps to the ground, unconscious.  Kizzy takes Kaito’s arm, looking smug.  “Home,” she confirms.  

When they’re in the stairwell, Kaito hums to get Kizzy’s attention, and signs _I love you_ when she looks at him.  He watches her face as she watches his hands, and sees her furrowed brow smooth as she recognizes the gestures.  She hmphs under her breath, but her expression softens anyway.  “Kaito-chan.  Is now really the time?”

He shrugs.  His shoulder hurts.  He rolls it again, feeling the burn as his muscles protest, as he continues walking down the stairs, Kizzy on his arm.  Doesn’t realize he’s picking at the torn skin on his knuckles until Kizzy’s hand covers his own to stop him, and she leans up to plant a warm kiss on his cheek.  

It’s dumb that after all the time he’s been together with Kizzy, his face still heats up at that.


	4. ice/jesse

Pearl and Nine are passed out draped across each other, snoring and somehow managing to not wake the other up, and Sarah is leaning against Ice, staring down the ice cubes melting in her glass.  Bernie migrates into Pho’s lap, and Diddy and Dixie are drunkenly murmuring into each other’s ears in the dimmest corner of the room; when they start kissing, it’s loud in the still, smokey room — wet and intoxicated-sloppy.  Jesse makes a face, downs the rest of his whiskey, and excuses himself from the room.  

Ice lets his head roll back against the couch.  His arm has gone numb behind Sarah’s shoulders, he’s half-stoned on second-hand pot smoke, and staying sprawled on the couch until he passes out sounds  _really fucking good_ , but — his boyfriend is pissed about something.

Jesse is standing on the balcony over the dance floor, arms folded over his flat chest, leopard print coat hanging off his lean frame.  Ice gently shoves him as he walks up beside him, an action that prompts an sharp look from Jesse.

“Why’d you follow me?” Jesse asks, sounding irritated

“You get weird about the shit they pull sometimes,” Ice says, shrugging, jerking his chin to indicate the occupants of the room they’ve just left.  “Figured I’d check on you.”

“Weird,” Jesse repeats flatly.  “Sure.”  

“You cool?” Ice asks, folding his arms over the balcony railing, glancing sidelong at Jesse.  The muscle in his boyfriend’s jaw jumps, and his shoulders rise and fall in a jerky shrug.

“Ookay,” Ice says, and waits.       

“Does it bother you?” Jesse asks, after a moment.

Ice tilts his head.  “Does what bother me?”

“That you don’t get to fuck me.”  

Oh.  This again.  Ice hunches forward over the balcony, looking down at the empty dance floor.  “Nah.”

“Really?”

Shifting, Ice scratches the back of his head, and leans one elbow on the railing.  “Sex is no fun if we both aren’t into it.  So no, it doesn’t bug me.”

“‘Cause like.”  Jesse stops, the words bitten off as he frowns in thought.  “Usually I couldn’t give a shit but then, Pho and Bernie, and the two D’s, and they’ve fucking got their tongues down each other’s throats and it’s like — I never had that so I’m not missing it, but.  It just never clicks for me like that when I’m around you.”  He laughs sharply and rumples his hair, ducking his head.  “It’s not you.  I mean fuckin’ shit, you’re gorgeous,  _everyone_ wants to fuck you — stop that,” he interjects when Ice waggles his eyebrows, “but  _I_  look at you and it’s like—” he snaps his fingers several times in rapid succession next to his ear, cocking his head towards the motion “—  _nothin’_.  Circuit’s dead.  Like something’s broken up there.”

Ice sobers at the b-word, rolling his tongue around in his mouth, the taste of vodka clear and sharp on the back of his tongue.  “You’re not broken.”

“Yeah?”  Jesse grins at him with zero humor.  “How do you know that?  You a fuckin’, psychiatrist now?”

“You don’t like sex.  Big fucking deal.  You think I only love you for your dick?”

Jesse laughs, and some of the tension leaves his shoulders.    

Ice grins at him.  “Seriously, if I just wanted to get my dick wet —”

Jesse swipes half-heartedly at him.  “Shut  _up_ ,” he says, but can’t hide the smile flickering across his face as Ice easily sidesteps the blow.  He stretches on his tiptoes like a cat, back arched and arms extended over his head, yawning.  Ice watches appreciatively, gaze flickering to the narrow strip of stomach and dark trail of pubic hair exposed as Jesse’s shirt riding up.  “Let’s go to bed, babe,” Jesse says.

Ice jerks his chin towards the side room, from which Pearl and Nine’s snoring is still audible.  “What about them?”

Jesse rolls his eyes.  “Let them sleep it off.”


	5. koo/rocky

Rocky’s tired.  His hair is warm and post-shower damp against his knuckles when he rakes it back from his eyes and looks at Koo.  Koo’s sitting atop the bedspread, leaning back against the glossy wooden headboard, reading glasses settled on the bridge of his nose and black sock-clad feet crossed at the ankles.  Judging by the familiar spreadsheets open on his laptop, balanced on his knees, he’s going over Club Heaven’s accounts.   

When Koo sighs, sets his laptop aside, and climbs off the bed to retrieve his silk pajamas from the recently laundered stack on the dresser, Rocky finds himself watching drowsily. 

Koo undresses as deliberately as he does everything else.  The bed dips as he sits on the end of it, leaning over to unlace his boots, the waxed laces rasping through the metal eyelets.  His harness comes off first — strategically placed buckles making it easy for him to unfasten it and pull the soft leather webbing off in one piece.  It’s draped over the back of a chair.  He unbuttons his shirt, top to bottom, and hangs it on a wooden hanger in their shared closet.    

He’d obviously decided to be fancier that morning, because when he slides his white trousers down his legs and carefully steps out of them, he’s wearing lingerie underneath.  

Rocky’s mouth goes a little dry watching him.  

The way Koo’s thigh muscles slide beneath the sheer black thigh-highs, the exposed few inches of tan skin above the stocking tops, which are held up by a plain garter belt and garters of dully shining charcoal ribbon.  His soft cock is a visible bulge beneath the soft black material of his boxer briefs.

When he starts to unfasten his stockings, Rocky makes a noise in his throat and Koo looks up at him, one eyebrow raised, and  _dammit_ , his boyfriend is  _beautiful_.  

Rocky clears his throat and croaks, “Leave them on and come to bed.”


	6. kizzy/kaito

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> kizzy/kaito + taking a bath together

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> takes place after end of sky, but there aren't any spoilers

Kaito collapses onto their futon like a marionette with cut strings and two black eyes, while Kizzy marchs straight to the bathroom and fills the tub with water cranked hot as it will get. She scrubs the blood off her knuckles, strips down to her underwear, and sorts her discolored clothes into ‘wash’ and ‘beyond hope’ piles.

Then she rummages through the contents of their tiny fridge and finds some ice for him.

He’s fallen asleep on the futon when she limps over to him, and she stands over him for a moment, watching him with self-conscious fondness. His lips are parted over teeth streaked with blood, and his left hand is curled loosely on his sternum. He thinks he’d fractured it during the fight; had told her on the way home, quiet.

He grumbles under his breath when she nudges him awake — Kaito-speak for “leave me be” — but lets her steer him into the steam-filled bathroom. She sits him down on the edge of the tub and works his coat off. His good hand stays braced on her shoulder for balance as she crouches to slide off his dusty boots. When she’s done tugging off his pants, she leans up and kisses him on the corner of his mouth. He tastes like copper, but he smiles at her anyway.

After he’s stripped down to his underwear, he gets into the tub, and Kizzy climbs in after him, hissing as the water stings her scrapes.

Grime and blood turns the water nearly gray, which is gross, but Kizzy doubts she would’ve been able to keep Kaito upright long enough to wash them both down outside the tub.

She leans back against Kaito’s chest. He carefully puts his arms around her and presses the makeshift ice pack over his swollen left hand.

“Rocky looked like shit,” she observes conversationally. “I hope they got him back home safely.”  
  
Kaito murmurs something against the nape of her neck, his swollen lip hot against her skin.

The water covering her lap cools to a comfortable temperature, the warm, steamy room makes her drowsy, and for the next few minutes, the only sound in the bathroom is water lapping against the sides of the tub at any movement.

Eventually, the ziplock bag of ice Kaito was cradling to his bruised knuckles slips from his grasp into the bathwater, and his pained breaths are replaced with the deep breathing of someone exhausted finally sleeping. His breath is cool on Kizzy’s steam-glazed skin.

The boot-print bruise on her abdomen is turning an angry plum color, and she’s probably going to piss blood for the next couple of days. Tomorrow morning she’ll be stiff and sore, and she secretly hopes Rocky will be laid up long enough that he won’t call any meetings before she’s healed up.

Kizzy crosses her legs at the ankle and arranges Kaito’s arms around her into a near-hug. She’s not going to worry about anything of those things for now, though.


End file.
